DESERT SPRING
 
 

The winter desert waits in cold somnolence,
in gray-brown starkness spiked by faded scrub.
It is an austere, demanding land marked
and surrounded by sharp mauve-brown mountains
that thrust against the lower reaches
of wispy images of clouds.

On currents filled with sunshine's promise
she drifts across the sage and Joshua trees,
blessing hidden crannies with her breath
which leaves a tattered trail of beauty
seen only by the diurnal lizard's eyes.
Before the eye she drops her treasures
leaving brighter, darker greens and
splashes of bright yellow floating
on the desert floor, dotted by the fuschia
bloom or brightened by white desert flowers.
She drops clumps of lighter sage among
refreshed smoke trees and paints spiked
orange up and down the valleys.
And where is least expected there is
the bright, palest lavender, her eyes.

As she advances up the slopes of burgundy
and burnt sienna she paints with mossy green
on rocks which before stood bare.
She warms the desert air with the sunshine
of her smile and the joy of her laughter,
the cactus blooms.
And as she trails yet further, higher,
the desert smiles and starts to fade
for summer comes and the desert dreams
until spring comes again.